


i'll be home for christmas (if only in my dreams)

by fakecharliebrown



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bets & Wagers, Breaking Up & Making Up, Christmas Fluff, Coming Out, Dogs, Happy Ending, Holding Hands, Ice Skating, Light Angst, M/M, Miya Atsumu Needs a Hug, Nonbinary Kita Shinsuke, Small Towns, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, in the form of a hallmark movie, this is my love letter to atsukita
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:28:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28329756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fakecharliebrown/pseuds/fakecharliebrown
Summary: “Do I hafta do this, Omi?” Atsumu whines, tugging his scarf down so that the fuzz isn’t sticking to his tongue when he speaks.Sakusa scowls. He’s a good agent, probably one of the only ones in the business who’d ever be willing to put up with a bastard like Atsumu, but he doesn’t exactly sugarcoat things. Sometimes, Atsumu wishes he would. “You got yourself into this mess,” he spits. “You get yourself out. If the press sees you going home for the holidays, and you can actually show the world that you like Christmas, and you aren’t a big fucking liar, you might still have a job come January.”“And if I can’t?” Atsumu asks.Sakusa levels him with an unimpressed, unamused glare.or; Atsumu is a big time movie star, Kita works at a Christmas Tree Farm. It’s especially unfortunate that Atsumu hates cliches, seeing as his whole life has suddenly turned into one.
Relationships: Kita Shinsuke/Miya Atsumu, Miya Atsumu & Miya Osamu
Comments: 14
Kudos: 81





	i'll be home for christmas (if only in my dreams)

**Author's Note:**

> whats this? a title that isnt from a taylor swift song? i know, shocking, but at least its plot significant :,)

Atsumu is nothing like his reputation. A big name movie star, Atsumu’s been in everything—horror movies, animated movies, romantic comedies, action movies, and, most recently: Christmas movies. His agent called it ‘great for publicity’ and made him market an image of a homebody who loves Christmas and is eternally grateful to have finally been able to star in a festive film. It worked fairly well—the tabloids love him, and interviewers are always trying to sink their claws into the story of Atsumu’s home life, and the Christmas traditions he loves most. 

And filming a Christmas movie wasn’t a terrible experience. His co-star had been a nice girl who didn’t take shit from anyone (least of all Atsumu). The movie itself wasn’t even a cheesy Hallmark type—Atsumu’s pretty sure the thing’s going to theaters. The only part of all of this that feels weird is that his new image, the interviews, everything he’s mentioned on a public platform since publicity started for this movie is that—

It’s all one big lie. 

Atsumu hates Christmas, as he does most holidays. He hasn’t gone home to celebrate anything at all in years, especially not Christmas. Every time he logs onto Twitter, he waits with bated breath to see if Osamu has exposed him to the world for being a liar and a Grinch, but his twin’s Twitter feed is surprisingly lacking in mentions of Atsumu. And Atsumu would never assume Osamu has taken this opportunity to leave Atsumu alone, because the bastard’s never left Atsumu alone a day in his life. 

Atsumu sighs, tugging at the cuff of the itchy Christmas sweater he’s been shoved into for this particular interview. It’s another one he’s supposed to do all by himself, just him and the interviewer in a disgustingly decorated room. Atsumu’s chair is positioned right beside the tree, where a million red and silver baubles sparkle under the glow of tiny, glowing tree lights. It looks pretty, if Atsumu’s being honest. He just prefers to lie and call it an abomination.

“So,” the interviewer starts. Atsumu turns to face forward. The light on the camera blinks red—the only indication that they’ve started recording. Apparently, they wanted the candid of Atsumu (probably) scowling at a Christmas tree. 

Atsumu doesn’t understand the press. 

“So,” Atsumu replies, grinning. The interviewer giggles sweetly. She looks young, probably a year or two younger than Atsumu. The young ones are usually the fresh ones, the ones who haven’t gone through this a hundred times before and haven’t necessarily perfected their craft. They’re also the easiest to fluster. Atsumu lays on the smolder, watching the interviewer’s cheeks heat up.

“You’ve been talking a lot about—um—how much you love this time of year,” the interviewer stammers. Her stuttering fills Atsumu’s gut with cruel joy. “What’s one of your favorite Christmas memories from childhood?”

Atsumu opens his mouth, already ready to spew one of the pre-cooked lies he and his agent concocted, but then he falters. His eyes drift toward the decorated tree, all of the sparkling candy canes, the snowmen with red scarves, the color-coordinated decorations that look nothing like the ornaments that used to reside on the tree back home.

“All of it,” he blurts, remembering himself suddenly. There’s a reason he has to sit with his agent and craft false replies for interviews—Atsumu has a tendency to run his mouth and say things he shouldn’t, things his publicist would be mad at him for. “I really liked every part of it.” 

The interviewer grins, leaning forward slightly. In a conspiratorial voice, she says, “But if you had to pick just  _ one.” _

Atsumu thinks for a moment, rifling through the fake memories he and his agent created. Making snowmen, baking cookies, caroling around the neighborhood, picking out a Christmas tree, drinking hot chocolate, driving around looking at light displays. It’s all there, in the back of his mind. But for some reason, the longer the interviewer looks at him, the longer the itchy Christmas sweater irritates the skin on his wrists, the longer Atsumu stares at the sparkling tree lights, the less he wants to say something fake. 

“My brother and I used to sing Christmas songs at the top of our lungs,” he starts, and even  _ he  _ doesn’t know where he’s going with this. “Our favorite was ‘The Chipmunk Song.’ God, our parents hated it so much when we’d pull out the Christmas CD Grandma made us.”

The interviewer laughs. “You’re a singer?”

“Not even a little bit,” Atsumu snorts. “Oh, we were  _ awful.  _ But it was more about the fun of bein’ annoyin’ than the joy of singin’  _ well.”  _

Again, the interviewer chuckles. “Well—care to give us a few bars? We won’t judge.”

Atsumu laughs and waves his hands. “I shouldn't—I don’t wanna shatter any of these pretty glass ornaments with my shriekin’.”

“Come on,” the interviewer needles. “Please?” 

Atsumu hesitates. “Alright, alright. Fine.” He’s doing this for publicity, he tells himself. This’ll make him look  _ great.  _ “But it’s not the same without my brother.” 

The interviewer glances around. “You could call him? Would the mics be able to pick him up?” 

The director, standing behind the cameraman, nods and shoots the both of them a thumbs-up. One of the assistants runs on set to give Atsumu his phone. Atsumu slides it open, moving on autopilot to pull up Osamu’s contact. He hits the button for speaker phone, and waits in anticipation for Osamu to pick up. 

He picks up after the third ring. “‘Lo? The hell d’ya want?”

Someone in the studio coughs. Atsumu smirks. 

“‘Samu,” he greets. “‘M in an interview right now.”

“Then why’d ya call me?” Osamu asks, sounding bored. “I have much better things to do.” 

Atsumu rolls his eyes. “They want me to sing ‘The Chipmunk Song,’” he tells his brother. 

“Literally why would they want that?” Osamu drawls. “Yer an awful singer.”

“Mean,” Atsumu huffs. “Yer no better.”

“Doesn’t make ya any less terrible,” Osamu retorts. 

Atsumu sighs. “Wouldya just sing it with me, ya big oaf?”

“Not a chance,” Osamu says immediately. 

“Please?” Atsumu whines.

“No,” Osamu repeats. “Just ‘cause yer fine with embarrassin’ yerself on a regular basis doesn’t mean I want my low points plastered all over YouTube.”

“Yer the worst,” Atsumu mutters. 

And then— 

“Ya don’t even like Christmas,” Osamu snaps. “I dunno why the fuck yer all huffy over some stupid interview and a stupid song ya haven’t listened to in at least eight years.”

The studio was already silent, but suddenly the quiet turns oppressive. Atsumu watches the gears turn in the interviewers mind, her expressive face betraying all of her thoughts. 

“Bye,” Atsumu blurts, and hangs up the phone before Osamu can say anything else. He hands the phone back to the assistant, laughing nervously. “I don’t—I dunno why’d he go ‘n say somethin’ crazy like that. I love Christmas. Obviously.”

“Right,” the interviewer says slowly. “Of course you do. Just—just wondering—in that story you told  _ Pop! News  _ last week about the stockings—which picture was on yours?” 

Atsumu blanks. He’d made up that story, after the interviewer asked him something he didn’t have a manufactured answer to. He doesn’t remember all of the details, certainly not under pressure like this. “Uh—a reindeer.”

The interviewer suddenly doesn’t look as happy to be sitting across from him. “There was no stocking story,” she says. Atsumu’s gut churns. “You told them about losing your sock in an ice skate.” 

Oh. Right. That would explain why Atsumu doesn’t remember any of the details of a stocking story. 

“Yeah,” the interviewer starts, standing up. “I think we’re done here.”

Off set, Atsumu’s agent has his head in his hands, shaking his head. Atsumu doesn’t blame him. It’s gonna be hard to fix this—the only thing the public hates more than a Grinch is a liar. Atsumu just so happens to be both. 

-

“Do I hafta do this, Omi?” Atsumu whines, tugging his scarf down so that the fuzz isn’t sticking to his tongue when he speaks. 

Sakusa scowls. He’s a good agent, probably one of the only ones in the business who’d ever be willing to put up with a bastard like Atsumu, but he doesn’t exactly sugarcoat things. Sometimes, Atsumu wishes he would. It’d be nice to have an agent at least  _ look  _ like he wants to be working with Atsumu. “You got yourself into this mess,” he spits. “You get yourself out. If the press sees you going home for the holidays, and you can actually show the world that you  _ like  _ Christmas, and you aren’t a big fucking liar, you might still have a job come January.”

“And if I can’t?” Atsumu asks. 

Sakusa levels him with an unimpressed, unamused glare. 

“Right,” Atsumu says, turning away. “You’ll be lookin’ for new clients.”

The two of them stand in silence for a moment, Atsumu watching the traffic light to see when he can cross the street to the airport. He doesn’t expect to hear anything else out of Sakusa—he never says anything after he’s made his point. 

And then Sakusa surprises him. “Look,” he starts. “I know you don’t want to do this. I don’t want to  _ make  _ you do this. But you like acting, right?”

Atsumu nods, his hands stuffed in his pockets and his eyes trained on the faded paint of the crosswalk. 

“Casting directors don’t like actors with bad reputations,” Sakusa continues, as ruthless as ever. “And yours is currently very, very bad. Nobody trusts you anymore. Everything you’ve ever said is now up for debate. The only way to fix this is to show them you aren’t a liar. And the only way to do that—”

“Is to show I like Christmas,” Atsumu finishes, grumbling. “Even though I  _ don’t.  _ I knew lyin’ ‘bout this Christmas junk was a mistake.”

Sakusa rolls his eyes. “You’re the one that wanted to be in a Christmas movie, remember? I was just trying to help you.” 

Atsumu sighs. The light changes. He opens his mouth to say something, but instead just mutters, “See ya later, Omi-omi.” Sakusa waves as Atsumu walks off toward the airport, dragging a rolling suitcase behind him. He tugs up his scarf and buries his nose in the soft fabric. He can feel the cold freezing his ears. 

Going home for the holidays for the first time in—how many years? Five? Six? Atsumu moved away from home to star in a blockbuster film at age sixteen, and he never looked back. Now, at age twenty-two, he finds that going home doesn’t feel like going  _ home.  _ It just feels like losing.

“This is gonna suck,” Atsumu declares, staring up at the airport looming in front of him. He turns around to search the crowded, snowy streets for Sakusa, but the man’s neon yellow puffer jacket is nowhere to be found. He left. 

Atsumu sighs and strides forward into the airport. 

-

His hometown is just as cold and snowy as Atsumu remembers. The closest airport is still a forty-five minute drive away—gotta love small towns—so Atsumu leans his head against the cab window and listens to the quiet Christmas carols rumbling through the car’s stereo system. The windows are frosted at the corners, fogging up every time Atsumu exhales. 

“Goin’ home for Christmas?” the cabbie asks. “Visitin’ family?”

Atsumu grunts. “Yeah.”

The cabbie glances at him through the rearview mirror. “Hey—ain’tcha that big movie star kid? Miya somethin’?”

“Miya Atsumu,” Atsumu confirms. “That’s me.”

The cabbie grins. “Well, I’ll be. Yanno, they still talk ‘bout ya ‘round these parts. Can’t believe a kid from this ol’ town went and made somethin’ of himself.”

Atsumu shifts uncomfortably. They still talk about him? Doesn’t that mean they still—they still  _ care  _ about him? Why the hell would they care about a kid who left them all in his dust? 

The cabbie squints slightly. “In this line of work, ya get real good at readin’ people. So, tell me, Miya—how long’s it been since ya came back here?” 

Atsumu turns to look out the window and says nothing. This cabbie doesn’t know him. He doesn’t owe the cabbie anything.

The cabbie sighs. “Yeah. That’s pretty much what I figured.” He’s quiet for a few moments, before he glances at Atsumu again, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. “I know it ain’t much, but—remember that this ol’ town’s still yer home, ‘kay? Try not to forget ‘bout us again.” 

Before Atsumu can even say anything, the cabbie pulls off to the side of the road. Atsumu looks around, and realizes that they’d passed into town and arrived back at the apartment building where Atsumu grew up without Atsumu even noticing. It really has been too long since he’s been back if he doesn’t even recognize the old village streets anymore. 

Atsumu pulls out his wallet, handing the fare to the cabbie before he gets out of the car and grabs his suitcase. The cabbie waves goodbye and pulls away, leaving Atsumu all alone on the streets outside his childhood home. Atsumu sighs, turning to look up at the building. He isn’t even sure if he still has a key to the place.

“Atsumu?” a voice asks. Atsumu turns, only to find himself staring at a familiar face. A muted smile and honey-colored eyes gaze up at him, two-toned silver and black hair grown longer and fluffier than Atsumu remembers. 

His ex. The first real love of his life, and the first person Atsumu dumped. The one person Atsumu regrets leaving behind.

“Kita?” he asks, frowning. 

Kita smiles. “That’s me,” they say. “But is it really  _ you?”  _

“‘Course it’s me,” Atsumu replies. “I know I bleached my hair, but I don’t look all that different.”

Kita chuckles. “I suppose yer right.” They pause, their eyes darting between Atsumu, the suitcase at his side, and the apartment building. “Yer comin’ home for the holiday?”

Atsumu nods stiffly. 

Kita tilts their head to the side. “I didn’t think ya cared much for Christmas.”

“Ya clearly haven’t seen the news,” Atsumu drawls. “‘Else ya’d know that this was my only option, ‘less I want the whole fuckin’ world to hate me forever.”

Kita blinks. 

Atsumu sighs. “Long story.” 

Kita smiles softly. “There ain’t much to do ‘round here,” they say. “I’ve got time.” 

Atsumu stares at them, considering it, before finally he shakes his head and says, “It was a long flight. I should go up ‘n say hi to Ma.”

Kita nods. “I understand. Have a good day, Atsumu. It’s good to see ya again.” They continue walking past Atsumu, humming softly under their breath. Kita has a good voice—they always have. Theirs is the kind of voice made for lullabies and singing along with the car radio, Christmas carols and town talent shows. Maybe not the kind made for stardom, but the kind everybody loves anyway.

Kita, in general, is the kind of person everybody loves. They’d never end up in a situation like the one Atsumu’s found himself in.

Atsumu’s phone buzzes. He pulls it out, only to find a text from Osamu waiting for him on the screen.

_ Osamu _ :  _ are ya comin inside or not? ya look like a delinquent _

Atsumu sighs. He reaches into his pocket and finds that yes, he does still have a key to the apartment. No point in putting it off any longer than he already has. 

-

The apartment smells like sugar cookies when Atsumu gets up to the front door. He stalls in the doorway, suddenly feeling like he’s walked into a time capsule from years ago; when the twins were seven, eight, nine and their mother had them sit at the table decorating sugar cookies. She always took the cookies down to the closest food kitchen, after giving each twin one of their creations to munch on. Atsumu used to beg her to take him with, but she liked to go alone.

Atsumu hasn’t smelled homemade sugar cookies in a long time. 

“Idiot,” Osamu drawls, crossing his arms over his chest as he enters the living room and finds Atsumu standing uselessly in the doorway. “Ya gonna come inside or are ya just gonna sit in the doorway forever?”

Atsumu snaps out of his trance, stepping into the apartment and tugging off his boots. 

“Ma,” Osamu calls. “Come ‘n see who decided to grace us with his presence.”

Atsumu’s chest tightens. He watches, holding his breath, as his mother wanders into the living room wiping her flour-coated hands on her apron. She’s frowning, her eyebrows furrowed and a question dying on her lips when she sees Atsumu. Her eyes turn glassy, her hands fly to cover her mouth, and she suddenly walks slowly as she approaches, as if she’s afraid Atsumu will disappear. 

“Atsumu?” she asks, her voice shaking.

Atsumu nods. “Heya, Ma.” He pretends his voice doesn’t crack. 

“Oh,” his mother says, “I can’t hug ya, I’m all full of flour. But ya look—oh, yer so grown  _ up!”  _

“Yer hair’s lighter,” Osamu observes. “Glad ya finally realized how awful that straw color was.”

Atsumu shifts. “Yers is darker. Ya let it go back to natural.”

Osamu shrugs. “No point in fryin’ my hair when ‘M always wearin’ hats for work.”

Atsumu nods, shifting awkwardly. “Where’s—uh—where’s Dad?”

“Workin’,” Osamu replies. “Which ya’d know, if ya ever came home. He always has to work more ‘round the holidays.”

Atsumu nods. His mother makes a soft noise, a mix of pleasure and a sob. 

“Oh, Atsumu, ya shouldn’ta stayed away so long,” she says, leading him by the arm over to the couch. “We haven’t seen ya since ya got yer big break!”

“Yeah,” Atsumu says awkwardly. “I know.”

“Why  _ did  _ ya stay away?” Osamu asks, squinting. He pointedly does not sit down on the couch with Atsumu and their mother. 

Atsumu says nothing. Staying away hadn’t been the initial intention—originally, Atsumu moved to the city temporarily to film, staying with the director at his apartment because Atsumu was still a minor at the time. But then the movie ended, and Atsumu got cast in another big role, and eventually his paychecks started going toward getting his own apartment, and hiring agents and publicists and becoming the movie star he always dreamed of being. Before he knew it, it’d been years—half a decade—since the last time he’d seen any of his family members. At that point, it was harder to come home than it was to stay away. 

The fact that  _ home  _ was actually a very small town made it easier. Atsumu knows what it’s like to be open and out in a small town—he watched one of the upperclassmen get ridiculed into moving away the year before he met Kita. And when he did meet Kita and they’d dated in secret, a small part of him died every time he thought about the fact that he’d never be able to show anyone how  _ much  _ he loved Kita. 

It’s easier to be himself in the city. And Atsumu doesn’t want to go anywhere where he can’t be himself. So, he left, and he never went back, and he learned to be okay with it. Really, he did. 

He didn’t  _ ask  _ for that stupid interview to ruin his reputation and force him to go back home, tearing open all of the old wounds.

Osamu scoffs at Atsumu’s prolonged silenced. “I dunno what I expected,” he mutters, storming off back into the kitchen. Atsumu watches him go, sighing softly. His mother squeezes his shoulder, clicking her tongue. 

“It’s been hard for him, yanno,” she murmurs. “Twins ain’t supposed to be apart.”

“Ya don’t gotta remind me,” Atsumu huffs. “I know I’m the worst.” 

“Atsumu, that’s not what I said,” his mother starts, but Atsumu just sighs again and stands. 

“I’m just gonna go unpack my stuff,” he says. “It’s been a long trip.”

His mother opens her mouth to say something, then seems to think better of it and closes it again. 

“Okay,” she says, her voice soft. “Okay.”

Atsumu takes his suitcase and wanders down the hall toward the childhood bedroom he shared with Osamu, pretending he doesn’t feel guilty over the crestfallen expression on his mother’s face, the anger brewing behind Osamu’s eyes. He knew this was a mistake.

-

The next morning, Atsumu emerges from the bedroom rubbing sleep from his eyes, only to find that his mother’s the only one still home. Osamu’s apparently gone back to his own apartment, and his father’s at work.

“Mornin’, sweetie,” his mother greets, as Atsumu trudges into the kitchen and sits down at the table. Atsumu grumbles softly in response. His mother laughs, and it makes Atsumu’s heart squeeze in his chest. He hadn’t even realized how much he missed his mother, missed his mother and her sugar cookies and her sweet laugh and the way she pressed a kiss to the crown of his head when he woke up and slumped over at the kitchen table. He supposes he got so used to missing her, he didn’t even realize he still did. 

“Got any plans for later?” she asks, carrying a plate of cookies and a mug of coffee over to the table. She sets them both in front of Atsumu, prompting him to lift his head and sit up. He cringes at the scent of coffee, pushing the mug away, but he takes a cookie from the plate and begins to nibble on it. Soft-baked chocolate chip, her specialty.

“Dunno,” Atsumu says. His mother takes the coffee mug and deposits it on the counter before taking a seat next to Atsumu, grabbing a cookie of her own off of the plate. 

“You could go ‘n get us a tree if ya want,” she suggests. “Yer father’s supposed to do it, but he’s been real busy with the store.”

“‘Kay,” Atsumu says. “I’ll go after I fill up on yer cookies.” 

His mother smiles and chuckles softly. “Eat yer fill,” she says. “But don’t tell my trainer that I’m gonna eat my fill, too.”

Atsumu laughs. “My lips are sealed,” he promises. For a moment, Atsumu smells the scent of cookies baking in the oven, vanilla mingling with cinnamon, and he feels warm from head to toe. For a moment, he forgets why he’s really come home—he’s supposed to enjoy Christmas and come back to the city with a story to tell to make the whole world forgive him. He isn’t here for fun, he isn’t here to eat cookies for breakfast with his mom and go down to the Christmas tree farm and fight with his brother and reconnect with his high school love. He’s here for business. 

Atsumu sighs and stuffs the rest of his cookie into his mouth, brushing the crumbs off of his lap before he stands. “I’m gonna head out,” he tells his mother. “I wanna get to the tree farm ‘fore the crowd gets too full.”

“Okay,” she says. “Be back for dinner.”

“I will,” Atsumu agrees, just before he leaves the room to go get himself dressed. He throws on the first sweater and pants combo he can find, buttoning the wool peacoat all the way up once he finishes. He wraps his scarf around his neck, tossing the loose ends over his shoulder before he tugs on his gloves and makes his way to the door to put on his shoes. Once he’s finished lacing his boots, his bids his mother a loud goodbye and leaves, stuffing his hands into his pockets to brace himself for the cold that waits beyond the lobby of the apartment building. 

It’s cold and windy outside, but it’s early enough in the morning that the streets are still relatively empty. Atsumu closes his eyes and lets the stinging cold burn his lungs for a few moments before his feet work on autopilot to take him to the Christmas tree farm near the edge of town, a place he remembers visiting a million times during childhood. 

The Christmas tree farm is exactly as Atsumu remembers it, rows and rows of evergreens lined up beyond a chain-link fence with a wooden sign boasting the farm’s family-owned name. He can see a few other customers milling about, but for the most part, the farm is empty. Atsumu makes his way inside, wandering the forest of trees to find the perfect one. Their apartment is small, so the six-foot-tall and higher trees are out of the picture, which leaves Atsumu to browse the petite pines. 

Abruptly, something tugs on the end of Atsumu’s scarf, pulling it tight around his neck and stealing the air from his lungs. Atsumu panics, waving his arms wildly to grab the tail of the scarf and yank it free from whatever’s grabbed him. He hears a distant growling, and turns to see that a dog has grabbed his scarf, a golden retriever by the looks of it. It’s wagging its tail, shaking Atsumu’s scarf. Just his luck—the retriever picked  _ Atsumu  _ to be its chew toy. 

“Momo!” a voice calls. “Momo, where did you get off to?” 

The dog glances over its shoulder at the same time a familiar face walks into the aisle. Kita takes in the sight of Momo the dog trying to kill Atsumu for a second, before they run up and grab the dog by its collar, yanking the scarf free from the retriever’s jaw. 

“Momo,” they hiss, “you know better!”

Atsumu wheezes, shoving the loose ends of his scarf into his coat. 

Kita glances up. “I’m real sorry,” they say. “He’s usually better behaved.”

“It’s fine,” Atsumu rasps. “I didn’t know ya liked dogs.”

Kita shifts. “Ah, well, Momo was a stray. I took him in for a night, ‘cause I didn’t want him to all alone in the cold, ‘n then I couldn’t bear to part with him.”

Atsumu smiles softly, despite the murder attempt. “Yer too nice for yer own good.”

Kita’s mouth tightens, just barely. Atsumu might not have noticed, if he didn’t know Kita so well. He sighs, remembering then that he and Kita aren’t just old friends, old classmates. There’s more than water under their bridge—their break up hadn’t been easy, and Atsumu still doesn’t think either of them ever really wanted it. Kita was always fine staying closeted, staying hidden. They didn’t need the world to know about who it was that they loved. But Atsumu wanted more than kisses in secret, hands held beneath tabletops and private meet-ups in secluded locations where nobody could see them. Atsumu wanted to be open and free, and Atsumu wanted a life in the public eye. Their relationship wasn’t built to last, even if their love might have. 

“What’re ya doin’ here, anyway?” Kita asks, drawing Atsumu back out of his thoughts. 

“Ma wants me to get a tree,” he replies. “You?”

Kita hums. “I work here.”

Atsumu nods. “Ya always did like Christmas. Doesn’t surprise me ya’d wanna work at a place like this.”

Kita tilts their head to the side. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Atsumu shrugs. “I just don’t see the appeal, I guess. I think I’d get sick of the merriment if I worked with Christmas trees or Christmas ornaments all the time.”

“I think ya just don’t understand wanting a simple life,” Kita counters. “Since yer so busy with yer life on the silver screen.”

Atsumu falls silent. 

“Sorry,” Kita says. “That was uncalled for.”

Atsumu shrugs. “Yer prob’ly right, so." He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t even know what he’d say if he  _ did  _ want to finish the sentence. 

They lapse into silence, Atsumu pressing his lips into a thin line. Momo whines softly at Kita’s feet, sticking his nose into the palm of their hand. Kita strokes Momo’s ear in response. Atsumu watches the exchange, sighing and running a gloved hand through his hair.

“What’re ya doin’ durin’ the day?” Kita asks. 

Atsumu shrugs. “Not much. ‘Samu’s workin’, so’s Dad. Ma’d prob’ly like it if I helped her bake, but I’m no cook, so.” 

Kita hums. “Can I ask ya somethin’?”

Atsumu hesitates. “Shoot.”

Kita’s quiet for a moment, before they turn to look at Atsumu and ask, “Why’d ya come back?”

Atsumu sighs. He considers lying; he could just say he was homesick. But Kita knows him too well to ever buy it, and after the way Atsumu left things six years ago, he figures Kita at the least deserves an honest explanation. “I’m in a Christmas movie,” he starts. “Not sure if ya’ve seen it. My agent tried to push an image of—of a person who loves Christmas and has a ton of traditions and always goes home for the holidays. But I went and I fucked it up, so now the whole fuckin’ world thinks I’m a liar ‘n they all hate me and I have to—I gotta make some good memories to tell after the holidays if I ever wanna save my reputation.”

“Sounds like a lot of pressure,” Kita says, after a few moments pass in silence. Atsumu nods. “How’re ya gonna make memories if everyone ya know’s busy all day? Plus—it’s already December 23rd.”

Atsumu shrugs. 

Kita squints at him, a thoughtful expression clouding their honey eyes, eyes Atsumu still gets lost in. His heart still beats for Kita, even after all these years. Just another thing he never realized he missed, he supposes. 

“I think yer still in love with me,” Kita declares.

Atsumu chokes on his own spit. 

“But that’s okay,” Kita continues, “‘cause I’m still in love with ya, too.” They turn to look at him. “We still love each other, Atsumu.”

Atsumu coughs. “We do.”

“We should date again,” Kita says. 

“We shouldn’t,” Atsumu replies. 

Kita frowns. “Why not? We love each other, don’t we?” 

“We want different things, Kita,” Atsumu reminds them. “We always have.”

Kita shrugs. “I don’t think so. I think yer just scared to let yerself be happy.”

Atsumu says nothing.

“How about this,” Kita starts. “I’ll go around and make memories with ya for yer publicity, and if at the end of yer trip ya can honestly say that ya aren’t gonna miss me, I’ll leave ya alone. We can part ways knowin’ we still love each other and that’ll be the end of it.”

Atsumu swallows. “And if I say I’ll miss ya?”

Kita smiles softly. “I go with ya,” they say. “And we give us another try.” 

“That hardly seems practical,” Atsumu argues. 

Kita shrugs. “I tried it the practical way. We saw how that worked out.”

Atsumu presses his lips into a thin line. Dating Kita wouldn’t be the end of the world. Going around making Christmas memories with Kita wouldn’t be the end of the world. In fact, Atsumu’s having a really hard time coming up with a reason to deny this offer.

“Fine,” Atsumu breathes. “Let’s do it.”

“I’m off in a couple of hours,” Kita says. “And then I’m free for the week, if yer not busy.”

“‘M not busy,” Atsumu tells them.

Kita smiles. “It’s a date.” They turn, whistling softly. “C’mon, Momo. Let’s leave the man to pick out his tree.” 

Atsumu watches Kita walk away, his eyes trained on the spot where they’d stood long after they’ve gone.

_ It’s a date,  _ they’d said. Atsumu’s heart flips in his chest. 

This really isn’t what he signed up for. 

-

Kita picks Atsumu up from the apartment a few hours later, dressed in a puffer coat and mittens. Momo is not with them this time, presumably left at their home. They smile at the sight of Atsumu coming down, even though he doesn’t look any different than he had earlier. 

“Hello,” Kita greets. Atsumu nods in greeting.

“Where’re we goin’?” Atsumu asks, shifting awkwardly. He’s still not so sure about this whole plan—after all, it kind of sounds like Kita’s just planning on taking Atsumu on a date around town, and Atsumu isn’t convinced that’s the best idea. He’s pretty sure the political climate in this town couldn’t change so much in six years that the two of them going on a public date would be anything but a bad idea. 

“The ice rink,” Kita replies. 

Atsumu’s eyes widen. “We’re—what?”

Kita grins. “I know yer no good at ice skatin’, but don’t worry—I won’t let ya fall.”

_ That’s exactly what I’m worried about, _ Atsumu thinks, but he doesn’t say anything. He lets Kita lead him to the frozen lake at the center of town, where rental ice skates are available for those who don’t own a pair. Kita pays for the rentals, sending Atsumu an unimpressed look when he tries to argue.

“This was my idea,” Kita declares. “I’m payin’.”

“Fine,” Atsumu mumbles, bending down to exchange his boots for the skates. Kita laces their skates up with ease, smiling softly when they see Atsumu struggling. They kneel down and lace Atsumu’s skates up for him, holding out their hand to help him up. 

“C’mon,” they murmur. Atsumu reaches for their hand, but hesitates. He can feel every eye in the vicinity watching him, everyone at the lake judging the two of them. 

“Are ya sure this is a good idea?” he says, gazing up at Kita. Kita rolls their eyes, grabbing Atsumu’s wrists and hauling him to his feet. 

“Ya gotta get outta yer head,” they chastise. “Nobody cares.”

“Everybody cares,” Atsumu argues, but the rest of his point dies on his tongue as soon as the two of them reach the ice, He sucks in a sharp breath, holding out his arms in an effort to keep his balance. Just as his legs are about to slide out from under him, Kita laughs and takes Atsumu’s hands in theirs, leading the both of them out to the outer ring of the ice rink.

“It’s not so hard,” Kita says. “Ya just gotta find yer rhythm.”

“I am gonna die here,” Atsumu declares. Kita laughs again, and Atsumu’s heart flips. Kita’s laugh is like heavenly violin music, a sweet chorus that Atsumu never grows tired of. One of the things he’d missed the most about Kita was their laugh, and how every time he heard it, it filled his whole body with warmth. The other thing he missed most was their eyes, their warm honey-colored eyes that crinkle up at the corners when they smile. 

Atsumu gets so caught up in staring at Kita that he almost misses the fact that he’s skating, really skating. Somehow, while he was lost in his Kita-induced trance, his legs learned to glide, no longer trembling with every step. Kita skates backward, still holding Atsumu’s hands in theirs. Atsumu takes a chance and squeezes their hands, prompting a smile to tug at the corners of Kita’s lips. 

“There ya go,” they murmur. “Now yer gettin’ it.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu breathes, his eyes stuck on Kita’s face, Kita’s eyes, Kita’s smile,  _ Kita.  _ How is he still this gone for someone he hasn’t seen in  _ six years?  _ “I think ‘M startin’ to get it.”

He doesn’t mean the ice skating. Kita seems to understand that, if the soft look in their eyes is anything to go by. 

“I knew ya would,” Kita whispers. 

Atsumu squeezes their hands again. He never wants this moment to end. “That’s ‘cause ya know everythin’.”

“Not everythin’,” Kita corrects. “Just—”

“Most things,” Atsumu finishes. Kita smiles, a crooked little grin that makes Atsumu’s heart do somersaults. “Ya used to say that all the time.”

“That’s ‘cause ya used to try ‘n tell me I knew everythin’ all the time,” Kita replies. 

“Touché,” Atsumu laughs. After a few more laps, Kita slows to a stop as they reach the exit of the ice rink, leading Atsumu back to the bench where they’d left their shoes. Atsumu lets them lead him by the hand, and he doesn’t even think twice about all of the people around. All he can focus on is Kita, and the way their hair ruffles slightly with the winter wind blowing through. “We done?”

“I have somethin’ else I wanna do,” Kita says. “Tell yer family ya won’t be home for dinner.” 

“Kita,” Atsumu gasps, already pulling out his phone. Kita finishes changing back into their shoes and bends down to unlace Atsumu’s skates. “So scandalous.”

Kita flicks his knee. “Get yer mind outta the gutter. I just wanna watch a Christmas movie with ya.” 

“Sure,” Atsumu says, sending the text to his mother and sticking his phone back in his pocket. He watches Kita work for a moment, admiring the way their nimble fingers deftly unlace and loosen the skates as if they’ve done it hundreds of times before. 

Kita rolls their eyes. “Put yer shoes back on. I’m gonna go return the skates.” 

Atsumu watches them go for a moment before bending down to pull on his boots. He’s finished by the time Kita returns, this time presenting his own hand for them to take. They blink in surprise, as a small smile spreads across their face and they reach up to take Atsumu’s hand. 

“Ya gotta wear gloves instead of mittens,” Atsumu tells them, following Kita away from the ice rink and down the street. 

Kita hums. “Why’s that?” 

“It ain’t a real date if I can’t intertwine my fingers with yours,” Atsumu pouts. 

Kita stifles a grin. “My apologies. I didn’t realize I was inconveniencin’ ya.” 

Atsumu huffs, hiding his own smile behind the folds of his scarf. “What movie are we watchin’?” 

“You’ll see,” Kita hums. The two of them lapse into silence, the only sound being the chatter of other patrons on the street, the steady hum of traffic, and the occasional melody of a Christmas carol escaping from shops as customers come and go. Warmth spreads up Atsumu’s arm, starting from the spot where his and Kita’s hands are interlocked. Walking at Kita’s side like this feels familiar, like Atsumu’s done it a million times before and could do it a thousand times more. It’s another one of those moments that Atsumu doesn’t want to end, walking here with Kita. When it begins to snow, and the flakes catch in Kita’s hair, Atsumu thinks to himself that even the world’s greatest painter could never properly capture how beautiful Kita looks right then. 

The moment ends as they draw near Kita’s home. Kita lives in a small apartment not far from the Christmas tree farm, situated on the other side of town that Atsumu’s family lives. The building is old—there isn’t even an elevator to take them up to Kita’s floor. The two of them scale the staircase, Atsumu trying to take them two at a time but finding that he can’t go as fast as he wants if he wants to keep holding onto Kita’s hand. 

Momo is waiting at the door when the two of them arrive at Kita’s apartment. He whines, his tail wagging excitedly as he sniffs Atsumu’s pants and noses Kita’s legs. 

“Hello,” Kita greets. “Did ya miss me?”

Momo whines, sitting down and lifting his front paw. Kita laughs and shakes Momo’s paw like they would shake a person’s hand, scratching the dog behind his ears before moving further into the apartment. Atsumu pulls off his boots and follows them, Momo hot on his heels. Kita gestures for Atsumu to take a seat on the couch. 

“I’ll be right back,” they promise. Atsumu takes a seat, Momo immediately plopping his head in his lap. Atsumu chuckles softly, reaching to scratch Momo behind his ears. Momo makes a pleased noise, leaning into Atsumu’s touch.

Kita returns a moment later, holding two mugs of what smells like hot chocolate. They set the mugs on the coffee table, smiling at the sight of Atsumu and Momo. “Ya seem to be gettin’ along,” they observe. Atsumu grins. 

“He ain’t half-bad,” he declares. Kita’s smile softens. 

Atsumu glances around. Kita’s apartment is sparsely decorated, but a small Christmas tree sits in the corner of the room, mismatched ornaments adorning its branches. Its yellow lights glow softly, the only light in the otherwise darkened room. “What’re we doin’ here?” he asks.

“I thought we could watch a Christmas movie,” Kita suggests. Atsumu pauses.

“Aren’t those usually pretty romantic?”

Kita shrugs. “We could watch  _ your  _ Christmas movie.”

Atsumu wrinkles his nose. “That’s  _ definitely  _ romantic.”

Kita laughs. “Well, now I gotta see it, if it makes ya wrinkle yer nose like that.” They grab the remote, pulling up a streaming service Atsumu doesn’t catch the name of. Within a couple of minutes, Kita has brought up the title and the movie poster for the Christmas movie Atsumu starred in, a feature film about some jaded executive learning the true meaning of Christmas from his love interest. 

Now that he thinks about it, the film plot rings true just a little bit with Atsumu’s actual real life. He doesn’t know how the observation makes him feel. 

Kita curls up on the couch, a scarce few inches between the two of them. Momo eventually gets bored and lays at Atsumu’s feet with a heavy sigh, as Kita hits play and the opening scene of the movie begins to play. It’s dark outside Kita’s window, and as the hot chocolate warms Atsumu’s entire body, he feels sleep beginning to tug on his eyelids. 

Kita lifts the mug out of Atsumu’s hands before he can spill it. 

“Yer already fallin’ asleep?” they tease. “Is the movie that borin’?”

Atsumu stifles a yawn, scooting a bit closer to Kita. “Nah,” he mumbles. “‘S good.”

Atsumu’s head drops onto Kita’s shoulders at the same time they say, “‘Course it’s good. It’s got you in it.” 

Atsumu hums, smiling slightly. “I think ‘m in love with ya,” he murmurs. 

Kita takes Atsumu’s hand in theirs, intertwining their fingers. “Yeah,” they say. “I know.”

Atsumu’s eyes slip shut. “Say it back,” he whines.

Kita laughs. “Needy,” they quip. A soft pressure presses against the crown of Atsumu’s forehead, and it takes his sleep-addled mind a moment to realize that Kita has pressed a kiss to his forehead. His cheeks warm just slightly. Kita squeezes his hand, and, just before sleep takes him, Atsumu hears them whisper, “I love you, too.”

-

Atsumu staggers home through the snow the next morning to find Osamu waiting for him in their childhood bedroom. He pauses in the doorway, steeling himself for whatever difficult conversation is about to follow, before he walks into the room and closes the door behind himself. 

“So,” Osamu starts. “Ya didn’t come home last night.”

Atsumu grunts. “I said I wouldn’t, didn’t I?”

“No,” Osamu replies. “Ya didn’t. Ya said ya wouldn’t be home for  _ dinner.  _ Ya didn’t say ya wouldn’t be home at all.”

Atsumu pauses. “Oh.” 

“Yeah,” Osamu drawls. “ _ Oh.” _

Atsumu says nothing, sitting down on his bed. Osamu sits across from him on his own bed, picking at a loose thread in the comforter. 

Osamu raises an eyebrow. “Ya wanna tell me where ya were?”

“Not particularly,” Atsumu replies. 

Osamu rolls his eyes. “Yer seriously not gonna tell me?” he huffs. “Are ya  _ kidding me?  _ First ya go ‘n leave me in the fuckin’ dust for six years, and now ya can’t even be  _ honest  _ with me?” 

“I had my reasons,” Atsumu defends, his stomach turning.

“Not that I would know,” Osamu snaps, “‘cause ya’ve never bothered to explain it to me. I mean—seriously? Ya ghost me for six years, then ya expect to sing with ya for some stupid interview like nothin’s even  _ changed?  _ What is  _ wrong with you?”  _

Atsumu reels back. “Nothin’s—nothin’s wrong with me,” he says, his voice wavering. He knows Osamu doesn’t mean it the way Atsumu is taking it, he knows Osamu would probably never say something like that, but he also—he _ doesn’t  _ know. He hasn’t spoken to Osamu in six years. For all he knows, Osamu would hate him if he ever found out where Atsumu was yesterday. 

“I’m yer  _ twin,”  _ Osamu tries again. “There’s nothin’ ya could tell me that’d make me hate ya more or love ya less than I already do, ya stupid oaf. Even after ya left me for six years, I still can’t bring myself to hate ya. What could ya possibly tell me that’s any worse than that?”

“I was with Kita,” Atsumu blurts. “I was with Kita! We went on a date. We went on a date, because I dated Kita in high school and we’re both still in love with each other. There. I said it. I’m fucking gay, ‘Samu. Go ahead ‘n disown me—I’m not stickin’ around this place for much longer.”

Osamu’s eyes blow wide. It takes him several minutes to say anything, visibly processing everything Atsumu’s just admitted to. When he finally does speak, all he says is, “You fuckin’ idiot.”

Atsumu winces. 

“I’m not gonna fuckin’ disown ya,” Osamu huffs, standing up and stalking over to Atsumu’s bed. He lifts his arms, and Atsumu flinches away, but all Osamu does is hug him. “Did ya honestly think I’d give a shit ‘bout who it is that ya love?”

Atsumu shifts in Osamu’s embrace. “I saw what this town did to that one guy,” he says, his voice stiff. “I didn’t wanna be the next one.”

Osamu is quiet for several moments. “Is that—is that really why ya stayed away all these years?” 

Atsumu nods. 

Osamu snorts. “‘Tsumu, I am literally so gay. I wouldn’ta shunned ya.”

“Sorry,” Atsumu mumbles. Osamu just shakes his head. 

“Honestly, I’m not even surprised anymore,” he says. “This is exactly the kinda over dramatic thing ya’d do.”

“Mean,” Atsumu pouts. 

“Yeah,” Osamu agrees. “But let’s focus on what’s more important here—yer datin’ Kita again?”

Atsumu pulls away from the embrace, the two of them sitting side by side on his bed. He nods, smiling softly at the thought of Kita. 

“Gross,” Osamu says, scowling. “Ya look so sappy.”

Atsumu huffs. “It’s called  _ love,  _ ‘Samu.”

“Disgusting,” Osamu drawls. “I’m happy for ya, or whatever.”

Atsumu chuckles. “Thanks.” 

Osamu nudges him. “Still hate Christmas?”

Atsumu opens his mouth to reply, but pauses. He thinks about Christmas, in its entirety. Thinks about his mother making Christmas cookies, thinks about singing carols with his twin as children, thinks about golden retrievers and Christmas tree farms and ice skating with Kita and hot chocolate by the dim lighting of Kita’s Christmas tree, Kita holding his hand and Kita kissing his forehead and Kita whispering  _ I love you, too  _ just before Atsumu falls asleep. 

And then, before Atsumu can finish properly crafting his response, Osamu sings, “ _ Want a plane that loops the loop _ .” His voice is nasally and squeaky, so much so that it makes Atsumu snort. 

Atsumu laughs, and continues, “ _ Me? I want a hula hoop! _ ”

Together, the two of them chorus, “ _ We can hardly stand the wait—please, Christmas, don’t be late! _ ”

They dissolve into laughter, leaning against each other as they calm down slowly. 

“No,” Atsumu says. “I don’t hate Christmas.”

“Good,” Osamu replies. “Maybe next year I’ll get ya that hula hoop.”

Atsumu snorts. 

-

The morning of December 26th comes far too quickly for Atsumu’s preference. He packs up his things and makes sure his ticket and boarding pass are in order before he bids his family goodbye, promising to call and come back for the next holiday. His mother cries, his father holding her by the waist to keep her standing, while Osamu just shoves him on the shoulder and tells him not to be an idiot and to text when he lands. 

But the hard part comes when Atsumu leaves the apartment and finds Kita standing outside on the sidewalk, Momo sitting at their feet and a small gift bag in their hands. They smile at the sight of Atsumu, but it turns stiff when they spot Atsumu’s suitcase. 

“Trip already over?” Kita asks. 

Atsumu nods. 

The two of them fall silent. Atsumu is aware that he needs to leave soon unless he wants to miss his fight, but a part of him just wants to spend another day with Kita, holding Kita’s hand. He never even got to kiss them, probably because he fell asleep in the middle of their first and only date. 

“I got this for ya,” Kita says, holding the bag out for Atsumu. “Don’t open it ‘til ya get home.”

Atsumu takes the bag, wondering what’s in it, and bends down to slip it into his suitcase. Once he zips the suitcase once more, he straightens up and sighs. 

“I don’t have long,” he murmurs. “My flight leaves in an hour.”

“I don’t need much time,” Kita promises, reaching out to take Atsumu’s free hand in theirs. They’re wearing gloves today, Atsumu notices, as they intertwine their fingers with Atsumu’s. “But ya gotta be honest with me, Atsumu. Promise me ya won’t lie.”

“I promise,” Atsumu breathes, lost in Kita’s eyes yet again. He could gaze into Kita’s eyes forever and never get bored, he thinks.

Kita licks their lips. Swallows. Hesitates. “Are ya gonna miss me?”

Atsumu knew the question was coming. He also knows the answer. The answer is yes, of course. Yes, obviously. Yes, he’ll never stop missing Kita. Yes, he will think about Kita for the rest of his life. Yes, he will love Kita for the rest of his days. Yes, he will miss Kita until the day he dies. Even if he gets used to the pain of not being at Kita’s side, the feeling will never go away. Every day spent without Kita by his side, every day he cannot look into warm honey eyes and feel that familiar flip in his heart, will be a day wasted. 

But Atsumu doesn’t say any of that. What he says is, “Ya have a life here, Kita.”

“I’ll have a life with you, too,” Kita argues, squeezing his hand. Atsumu stares down at their interlocked hands, and feels his eyes burn with unshed tears. He takes his hand back, stuffs it into his pocket, and pretends he can’t see the hurt expression on Kita’s face, pretends it doesn’t make his stomach roil with guilt and shame and self-loathing.

“We want different lives,” he tells Kita. “You want—you want somethin’ simple. But that’s not my life. My life is busy and chaotic and the entire world wants to know my business. I never get anything for just myself.”

“You could have me,” Kita says.

Atsumu hiccups a sob, closing his eyes to keep his tears from spilling over. “You don’t want my life, Kita.”

“You don’t get to tell me what I want,” Kita refutes. “Because I want  _ you.  _ No matter what kind of life we lead.”

“Really?” Atsumu presses. “Ya want a life of appearances ‘n paparazzi ‘n hate comments ‘n crazy fans ‘n pryin’ interviews ‘n busy schedules? Ya want a life that’s so far from simple it ain’t even funny? Ya got a good life here, Kita. Would ya really wanna throw that away?”

“For you?” Kita asks. They hold out their hand. It’s not a request, it’s not a demand. It’s an offer. The ball is in Atsumu’s court. Kita smiles softly. “Anythin’.”

Atsumu grabs their hand. “Fuck,” he cries. “I love ya so fuckin’ much, Kita.”

Kita reaches up with their free hand to cup Atsumu’s cheek, their smile softening. Their eyes are so warm, Atsumu thinks he could melt in them. “I know,” they murmur. “I love you, too.”

Atsumu releases his hold on his suitcase and bends down to cup Kita’s cheek, pressing a kiss to their lips. Kita leans into it, humming softly. For maybe the first time in his whole life, Atsumu doesn’t even care that they’re in public, doesn’t care that anyone could get a picture of this right now and ruin Atsumu’s career. Because—what does a career matter when he has Kita? What does a career matter when Kita loves him, and he loves Kita, and Kita’s touch is warm enough to melt the snow, warm enough to make Atsumu feel like he’s holding hands with a portion of the sun?

Atsumu pulls away, holding Kita’s face so close to his that their noses are nearly touching. “I gotta catch my flight, or Omi’s gonna skin me.”

“Go catch yer flight,” Kita murmurs. “I won’t be far behind.”

Atsumu presses one last chaste kiss to their lips, squeezing their hand before he pulls away and realizes that the cab he’d called has already arrived. He sighs, waving to Kita as he grabs his suitcase and steps into the cab. 

“The airport,” he says, reaching up to wipe away his tear tracks. The cabbie glances at him in the rearview mirror. It takes Atsumu a second to notice that it’s the same cabbie that brought him back to his hometown, the one who told him not to forget about his home.

“Have a good trip?” the cabbie asks. 

“Yeah,” Atsumu says, and he finds that he’s not lying even a little bit. “The best.”

The cabbie grins and pulls away from the curb. Atsumu shifts in his seat, and waves to Kita through the back window until the cab turns a corner and Kita’s gone from sight. 

The radio hums quietly, the lyrics to ‘I’ll Be Home for Christmas’ accompanying Atsumu on his journey away from home, away from Kita, away from his love. 

But it won’t be long, he reminds himself. The deal was always for Kita to follow him. And Kita keeps their word. 

“ _ I’ll be home for Christmas, _ ” Atsumu hums, tapping his fingers along to the beat. “ _ If only in my dreams. _ ”

**Author's Note:**

> i love atsukita
> 
> i do not know what possessed me to write an entire hallmark movie fic in a day but uhhhhhhh here we are,, pls be kind i know i am bad at writing atsumu 
> 
> as always, talk to me on [tumblr](https://fake-charliebrown.tumblr.com/), [twitter](https://twitter.com/fakecharlieb), or check out my [carrd](https://fakecharliebrown.carrd.co/)
> 
> be gay do crime see u next time B)


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